


Piercing

by onwards_outwards



Series: On the Road to Eyllwe [1]
Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Horny Lorcan, Idiots in Love, Mid-EoS, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Elide, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:49:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29595126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onwards_outwards/pseuds/onwards_outwards
Summary: Lorcan is suddenly overcome with that feeling that only Elide gives him – as if something within her is calling to him, pulling him into her orbit, leaving him as helpless as a leaf drawn into a river’s current.The words leave his lips without his permission. “I could pierce your ears, if you’d like.”
Relationships: Elide Lochan/Lorcan Salvaterre
Series: On the Road to Eyllwe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2174280
Comments: 28
Kudos: 60





	Piercing

**Author's Note:**

> I took some creative liberty when it comes to piercing procedure, so please don't use this as a guide for DIY ear piercing!!

Lorcan Salvaterre leans against the doorway to a tavern, watching as Elide conquers the busy marketplace at the heart of the Eyllwe town.

She flashes him a small smile as she breezes past a fruit vendor to a stall selling jewelry. Lorcan forces himself to remain slouching, hoping to appear like a weary traveler stopping for a rest.

It isn’t hard to pretend. The past month has been full of nothing but hard travel; ever since they were forced to leave behind their stolen boat on a riverbank in northern Adarlan and take to the roads, they’ve been bouncing from village to village, town to town. Staying in haylofts and inns and, too often, ditches by the side of the road. 

Lorcan knows this ragged living has worn on Elide. He sees it in her exhaustion at the end of every day, hears it in her soft sighs as she stretches her aching legs. But part of her seems to have…come alive somehow. As if every interaction she has with a barkeep or farmhand or milkmaid brings her a bit more joy.

It's been a miracle to behold, watching her bloom in front of his eyes. Watching her grow and flourish.

Lorcan angles his head, refocusing on Elide. They devised this plan because Lorcan himself – with his size, his glares, his _aura_ , as Elide calls it – draws too much attention. Much better to let Elide float through the crowd without his glowering presence holding her back.

It’s just an added perk that he loves to watch her do this, too – work her own particular magic on people.

It’s like watching Whitethorn and Moonbeam spar. Just like in a fight, he can see when she gains the upper hand. He can spot the moment she begins pressing for information the same way he can tell Whitethorn’s about to feint left instead of right. He can see the glint in her eyes when she finally unravels a person’s resolve the same way he can see when Fenrys knows he’s won a fight.

And he’s as proud of her as he is of his cadre when they fight well – more so, since he didn’t even train her.

No, this magic is completely her own.

He perks up when she comes to a stop, flashing a smile at the young girl working the jewelry stall

“Oh, these are beautiful earrings.”

He turns his gaze to his feet, forcing away the smile that her voice brings to his lips.

Hellas, when did he become so sentimental? No one, not even Essar, the only female he was able to stand for more than a few months, has ever had this effect on him.

It must be the stress of travel, wearing at his nerves.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

Lorcan redirects his focus to her ankle – making sure his power is bracing her, keeping her steady. Stealing away her pain, if only for a few moments. Her lack of limp, plus the kerchief wrapped around her hair, should disguise her enough to protect the village if the ilken have tracked them this far.

If not, Lorcan will protect her. He’d rend an ilken apart with his bare hands before he let them lay one, filthy claw on her.

He strains his Fae hearing for the rest of the conversation, but he can tell from her tone that she’s not going to press the child for rumors about Aelin. In her hour or so in the market, she’s yet to find any valuable information on the bitch queen’s whereabouts, just more stories about the sacking of Rifthold – which, while terrible, still leaves them with no idea about the location of Whitethorn's new crush.

Or her Wyrdkey.

“You say your father makes these?” Elide asks, her voice softer than usual.

Lorcan edges a few inches to his left, peering out from beneath the covered porch of the town’s seedy tavern. Paying too much attention to a pretty, young lady isn’t out of place for the traveler he’s supposed to be, is it?

The little girl behind the wooden stall nods, looking up at Elide with bright eyes.

“They’re very well-made, miss,” the child says. Lorcan almost chuckles; the girl has obviously been coached, but she has a gleam in her eye that suggests she enjoys this work. “Long wearability, you know? And very beautiful, too. They’re sure to impress any sweetheart.”

The girl gives an exaggerated wink. Elide throws her head back and laughs. “You’re quite the little saleswoman,” she says with a grin.

“It you have a sweetheart to impress, these are sure to do the trick. Very dainty, very feminine. See how the garnets shine in the sun? They’re sure to catch the eye of anyone. Maybe that handsome traveler over there?”

Lorcan is surprised to find the girl’s eyes on him. He pretends to be preoccupied with kicking mud from his boots as Elide turns to face him, too.

“Oh, that one?” Elide asks, feigning innocence. “Oh, yes, he is quite handsome, isn’t he? But I’d advise you to steer clear of the pretty ones, dear; they can be rather full of themselves.”

Lorcan has to bite back his laugh at that.

Oh, he’ll get her for that one.

“Yes, miss,” the girl giggles, before quickly returning to her sales pitch. “Well, if you’re interested in something a little more understated, I might suggest these. Very elegant, but simple, too. We even have some men buy these.”

Lorcan watches Elide take an earring from the girl, examining it in the light of the afternoon sun. She doesn’t even glance at him, though something in the way she’s angling her body, hand on her hip, breasts out, makes him think she knows he’s watching. That she _wants_ him to be watching.

Or maybe it’s just wishful thinking.

Maybe he’s just a pervert, paying too much attention to her breasts, searching for flirtation that isn’t there.

But, really, who could blame him – when a body is _that_ lovely it’s almost impossible _not_ to look.

He and his perverted mind are so preoccupied with that lovely set of breasts that he barely hears Elide say, “All right, you’ve convinced me. How much for these? And the garnet set?”

Lorcan bites back a curse. She’s spending _his_ money after all. They’ve long since burned through the coins Manon gave her, and her funds from fortune-telling didn’t last very long. His act _had_ been immensely popular in the caravan, but his earnings won’t last forever.

He’s in the middle of planning a firm scolding, when he sees the surprise and gratitude on the child’s face as Elide hands over the coin – and the almost pained expression on Elide’s face.

It stops him in his tracks, that look.

_Of course_ Elide wants to help the girl and her family. There’s a war brewing on the horizon that no one knows is coming, but might very well destroy the world as they know it.

And more than that, Lorcan knows what Elide sees when she looks at the child – a little girl living her life in the sun, running with great bounding steps toward her future. No chains, no captivity. Smiling as if it’s the easiest thing in the world to do.

Elide sees the childhood she should have had. The girl she ought to have become.

Suddenly, Lorcan hates being so far away from her. He should be next to her, peering over her shoulder and listening to her little jokes. Nudging her with his elbow when she retreats into those dark shadows of her past. Taunting her until she rejoins him in the present. Teasing until she looks up at him with that smile that makes his breath catch in his chest.

He doesn’t have to wait long, though. She finishes up her conversation with the tiny businesswoman, before making a show of looking back at the market, as if searching for a stall she missed her first time around. When she wanders out of the marketplace down an alley, looking for all the world like a common villager on her way home, Lorcan slips out from the shadow of the tavern, trailing after her.

She doesn’t acknowledge him, even as she starts down the road leading out of town. He waits until the city is out of sight before lengthening his strides and approaching her.

He lightens his tread, using centuries of training to sneak up to her before bending down, pressing his lips closer to her ear, and murmuring, “So, I’m pretty, am I?”

“Oh!” she cries, surprised. She swipes at him like a fly, scowling when he laughs. “You know I can’t be held accountable for anything I say while trying to get information; I might have blown my cover if I disagreed.”

“Because my beauty is just so painfully obvious to everyone who beholds me?” he says, deciding to ride the wave of his good mood.

And why not? It’s a bright afternoon, Elide is smiling more than she’s frowning, and she bought enough food to make an _actual_ dinner tonight.

There is quite literally nothing more that he could want than _this_.

Than her. 

“I _told_ her you could get full of yourself.”

He laughs again, reaching for the small, paper package in her hand. She makes an attempt at keep-away, but her tiny arms are no match him. He easily plucks it out of her grasp, giving her shoulder an affectionate nudge with his elbow when she pokes him in the ribs, muttering “Brute” under her breath.

He unwraps the package and examines the two sets of earrings.

They’re both roughly the size of a coin in diameter. One is inlaid with tiny, shining garnets, the other a pair of simple, gold rings – well, they _appear_ to be gold, but Lorcan is sure it’s just some cheap look-alike.

“I had no idea you had a proclivity for jewelry, Elide,” he says, though the tiny hoops in his palm are little more than shiny trinkets compared to the jewels that Maeve wears. Or even the cheapest jewelry sold in Doranelle. He almost says so, but Elide’s eyes shine as though he holds treasure in his palms.

“Well, I’m not,” she says haughtily. “But you saw that girl, Lorcan – she was so sweet. And we have money to spare.”

“You mean, _I_ have money to spare,” he says.

“Why, Lorcan,” she says, feigning hurt. “I thought we were a _team_. What’s yours is mine, right?”

He rolls his eyes, which makes her laugh, which strangely makes something in his chest hurt.

“Well, as admirable as your charity is,” he says, “These are pretty useless.”

“What do you mean?”

He reaches over, brushing her hair back. His pinky accidentally skims the column of her neck. “Unless you’re planning to turn them into rings, you can’t wear them,” he says, taking the unpierced flesh of her earlobe between his thumb and forefinger. He gives it a playful tug, unable to stop himself.

She pulls out of his reach, but not even her scowl can hide the blush that rises to her cheeks. Flustered, she snatches the earrings out of his palm.

Lorcan grins, seized by a strange mixture of pride and affection at the way she preens and blushes and fidgets at his touch, as if she’s not quite sure how to function under his attention.

He likes to touch her, just to see this moment, unnoticeable to untrained eyes, but always there – a slight, infinitesimal hesitation when he thinks she might lean into his touch.

Or, even better, touch him back.

“That’s beside the point,” she says, sounding a little breathless. “They can be a keepsake. A souvenir.”

“A souvenir,” he repeats doubtfully. She shoots him a half-hearted glare.

“Unless _you_ want to wear them as rings,” she says, reaching up on her tiptoes to tug at his own ear. He swats her hand away, though he’d do anything to keep it there. Maybe snake around his neck. Twine her fingers into his hair, run her nails over his scalp…

But now is not the time for fantasies. Not in the middle of the afternoon, with Elide gazing up at him expectantly.

No, he tucks those thoughts away for late at night, when the darkness can hide his shame, or when he has a few moments to sneak into the forest and…take care of himself.

“Wait – you got these for _me_?” he says with a sudden realization.

“Yes,” she says, as though it should be obvious. A faint blush tinges her cheeks. “The girl said some men buy them. I thought you might…I don’t know. It was silly.”

“No, I…” he starts, but trails off once he realizes he has no idea what he’s going to say.

_No, I like them, Elide – because you’re the only person who could buy me useless, knock-off earrings and still make my heart flutter._

Lorcan glances down at her, catching her staring at the hoops in her hand. Has she ever had jewelry of her own? She was sent to her tower when she was – what? Eight? Ten? Maybe she’d had girlish trinkets but never anything _real_. Never anything meant for a woman.

Lorcan is suddenly overcome with that feeling that Elide gives him – as if something within her is calling to him, pulling him into her orbit, leaving him as helpless as a leaf drawn into a river’s current.

The words leave his lips without his permission. “I could pierce your ears, if you’d like.”

“Really?” she asks, looking up at him with surprise, eyes wide and unguarded. No mask, no hiding.

Hellas, he loves it when he can catch her like this. Vulnerable. Open.

“Sure,” he says, uncertain how to respond when her voice gets earnest like this. It makes him uncomfortable – makes him want to pull away almost as much as it makes him want to pull her close.

“Are you qualified?” she asks, eyes narrowing.

“Sure, let me just get my certificate as a trained ear piercer.”

“Is that a thing?”

“Of course,” he says, raising a brow at her. “Don’t you know Doranelle is home to the best piercers in the world?”

“Really?” she says, flashing him that look of surprise again.

He can’t hold it anymore.

Lorcan bursts into laughter, throwing up his hands to shield himself from the sudden onslaught of Elide’s tiny fists on his arm.

“Don’t tease!” she says, giving him one last, stinging slap on his upper arm. "It's not nice!"

“All right, all right,” he says, holding out his hands again. “I'll behave, I swear. But my offer still stands. I’ll pierce them if you want.”

“Have you done it before?”

“No,” he admits. “But I’d say between our two great minds, we could figure it out. You have a needle, right?”

“Yes, with that sewing kit you got me in the last town.”

“You sure you can handle it, Lochan?” he says, giving her a nudge with his elbow.

“I don’t know,” she says, feigning worry. And even though he _knows_ she’s mocking him, that tone in her voice sets him on edge. He surveys the woods lining the road, searching for any threats. Just in case some ilken snuck up on them while they were…what? Talking? Flirting like teenagers? Teasing like old friends? He isn’t sure. Isn’t sure he _wants_ to be sure. “I have a _really_ low pain tolerance, Lorcan.”

She grins up at him, something wicked in the curve of her lips, as she points to her injured ankle. He inwardly curses himself for being so stupid, for having forgotten that she is _plagued_ by pain, but she just laughs, bumping her shoulder into his arm. He forces himself not to tense at the casual touch and she doesn’t back away.

They walk like that, brushing against each other as if it were the most natural thing in the world, for another hour or so.

“We should find a place to camp,” she says, once the sun begins its descent towards the horizon.

“How about here?” he says, nodding toward a tiny clearing a few dozen yards away from the road. Elide stands on her tiptoes, trying to see over the underbrush, before giving up.

“Lead the way, Salvaterre,” she says, giving the small of his back a shove. “I trust your instincts.”

He smirks down at her, biting back a boast about his eyesight or height, but she keeps pressing, her hand fitting perfectly between the ropes of muscle cording down his back. He lets her guide him, flashing her a glare that only serves to make her chuckle.

He knows she’s mocking the way he guides her through inns and taverns and marketplaces and any place crowded enough to give him an excuse to touch her, to lay an unspoken, proprietary mark on her.

But he thought he’d been discreet about it. Had hidden his need to claim her, keep her safe.

_With Elide_ , he thinks, grinning to himself, _Nothing stays hidden for long._

They go about setting up their camp in a comfortable silence, their movements routine after weeks of travelling across Erilea _._ Lorcan spreads out their bed rolls as Elide designates a place for the fire, gathering wood and kindling from the surrounding forest. As Lorcan crouches to start the fire, Elide sets down her bag and starts pulling out supplies for dinner. Some vegetables, a hunk of dried venison, two apples, and a small, brocade bag containing sewing supplies.

“Dinner can wait?” she says, looking up at him hopefully.

“I suppose,” he says, biting back his grin. He spends a moment more on the fire, before flames lick up from the kindling to devour the logs and branches Elide gathered. “Give it here.”

She hands over a needle, moving to crouch next to him. He examines the needle this way and that, before turning to Elide and pushing back the curtain of her dark hair.

As if he needs to examine her ear.

As if he doesn’t just want to look at the delicate, blue vein in her neck.

As if he doesn’t just want to see the way the tendons move under her skin, imagining the way they might move under his lips.

“Hand me that apple,” he says, pointing to the pile of food.

She obeys silently, handing it over with a strange, questioning look on her face. He lets his eyes rover over that face, grateful for the excuse to look at her.

“You sure you trust me to do this, Lochan?” he says, half-teasing.

“I trust you with my life,” she says easily, but her voice is strangely tender. “I think you can handle my earlobe.”

He scoffs, looking away as he swipes the needle through the flames until it’s hot to the touch. He backs a few feet away for more space, unfolding his legs out in front of them.

“How do you want me?” she asks, gesturing around, and Lorcan _knows_ she’s talking about how she should sit for her piercing but his damn pervert of a mind seizes her words and runs wild.

How many times has he imagined her asking him something like that? _How do you want me, Lorcan? On top? Beneath you? Like this, Lorcan? You like it like this? Does it feel good, love, when I touch you like this?_

He shakes his head, banishing the thoughts from his mind.

Lorcan knows has no right to think of her that way, and yet…

He can’t quite keep the images at bay as he gestures for her to move closer, letting her choose where to sit. If Elide is plagued by the same awkward indecision he feels, she doesn’t show it as she crosses the camp, kicks his feet apart, and kneels between his knees.

He keeps his feet flat on the ground, so his knees bracket her like walls as she settles in, adjusting her skirts with a precision that feels unnecessary. For her sake, he ignores the slight blush on her cheeks as he brushes her hair over her shoulder.

“Is the apple necessary, or did you just want a snack?” she says, jutting out her chin to give him better access to her ear.

“You’ll see,” he says, flashing her a grin as he examines the needle. It’s sharp and clean – perfect.

“All right,” he says, hesitating for a moment before looping his right arm around her shoulders, holding the apple behind her right ear. With his left hand, he raises the needle, placing it in what he thinks is the dead center of her earlobe.

It feels strange, having her body totally enclosed by his. But at the same time, it feels completely, _completely_ right.

“Oh,” she says in realization. “You’re using the apple as backing.”

“Smart girl,” he mutters, glancing at her before repositioning the needle. He ignores the way she shifts slightly toward him, ignores her hands fidgeting in her lap, ignores her growing nervousness.

Well, _tries_ to ignore.

“You’ll tell me, right?” she says suddenly, grabbing his knee. “Before you do it?”

“Don’t like surprises?” he teases, but when he glances at her, he finds her eyes wide and her lips pale. The acrid scent of her fear pierces the air, automatically setting his senses on edge. He softens his voice, softens his face. “Course I’ll tell you, Elide. I’m trying to find the center. Hold still, all right?”

She nods, her face losing its tension, but her hand doesn’t leave his knee.

Finally, after finding what he hopes is the right spot, he looks back at her.

He hesitates, wondering if he’ll ever have her like this again – completely encircled in his arms, bracketed by his legs, so close he feels her quick breaths on his neck.

“Ready?” he says.

His voice comes out lower than he meant it to.

She nods, setting her lips in a thin line.

Hellas, he wants to kiss those lips.

“Three…two… _one_.”

On one, he makes a forceful little movement with his wrist. She gasps and grabs his thighs, but the needle is already through her flesh, lodged in the apple. She opens her eyes and looks at him, unsure.

“Did it work?” she whispers.

“I’m afraid your earlobe is mangled beyond all repair,” he says in an attempt seriousness, but he can’t quite make his voice obey him – not with her little hands clutching the tops of his thighs.

“Be serious.”

“ _Yes_ , it worked, Elide. Does it hurt badly?”

“No, just a sting. It feels…weird, though.”

“What, having something impaled in your ear?” he asks innocently, taking one of the earrings from her outstretched fingers.

Fingers which she then uses to pinch him.

“Don’t be an ass,” she says lightly. Then, in a tighter voice, “You’re going to take the needle out?”

“Yes,” he says, wishing he had a spare hand to give her. Wishing he was the type of man who could hold hands and offer comfort. “Hold still.”

In a swift movement, he slips the needle from her earlobe and replaces it with the earring. She takes a sharp inhale, but it seems to be more from surprise than pain.

“All right?” he asks, leaning back a few inches to examine his work. He hadn’t realized just how close their faces were.

“All right,” she repeats with a grin. “Damn, I wish we had a mirror!”

“I’ll be your mirror,” he says. He means it light-heartedly – just the first comment that came to mind – but something about it feels…heavy. Serious. She blinks at him as if she felt the weight of his words, too. He hurries to say, “It looks great, though I think that’s due more to my artistry than anything.”

“ _Artistry_ ,” she scoffs. “All you did was poke a needle through some skin.”

“You want to do the other ear yourself, then?” he counters, cocking his head at her tone. When she doesn’t answer, he makes to stand up, but she tightens her grip on his thighs.

“No,” she says. “Please, finish. Lorcan.”

The way she says his name – soft and earnest and _comfortable_ , as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a human to be on first name basis with Lorcan fucking Salvaterre – stills him. The ways he says his name _owns_ him. There’s no way she doesn’t know what she’s doing to him; someone as cunning as Elide can’t be so oblivious to the hold she has over him.

But there’s no knowledge or teasing in her eyes when he meets them. Just a question. A plea.

And so he settles back down, switching the apple and needle to his other hands and slowly, quietly repeating the process on her other ear.

Because she asked.

Because he’d do anything she asked.

When he’s done, she makes a show of shaking her head, laughing at the sensation of the hoops brushing against her neck. Lorcan laughs, too, and reaches forward to pull a thread of dark hair out of a garnet-studded hoop.

“Now, your turn,” she says excitedly, taking the needle and apple from him.

“I don’t know if I trust you with that,” he says, eyeing the sharp point of the needle.

“What’s wrong, Salvaterre? Scared of a little pain?” she coos, putting on a pout that should _not_ excite him the way it does. “Come on, be a big male and don’t whine. Wouldn’t want all your pals in Doranelle to know you’re afraid of a little human with a sewing needle, would you?”

Gods, just when he thought she couldn’t possibly find new ways to arouse him, she has to go and be _mean_ to him. He’s never liked that before! But something about teasing, mocking words falling from Elide’s pretty mouth makes his brain go foggy. And forces him to adjust his pants.

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” he says, pointing a finger at her which she promptly swats away. “You don’t want to see the wrath of a Fae warrior.”

“Well, I _have_ seen the wrath of a Fae warrior,” she says primly, “And I liked it. Very much.”

He thinks back to those ilken attacks, the blood and gore that had covered him. Remembers the few skirmishes with leering bartenders and groping patrons he’s had while on the road. And not once had she ever flinched. Not once had she ever balked from him or his violence.

“How do you want me, Elide?” he asks, something about her previous statement softening his voice.

The words seem to have the same effect on her that they had on him. She pauses for a moment, her eyes dragging along the length of his body. It feels like a physical touch, her gaze. He can just imagine her lithe, little fingers dragging along his collarbones, his chest, lower, lower, lower…

“Well, let me try from here.” Her voice, strangely tight, interrupts him from his thoughts. She sits on her heels, but the angle is awkward – she has to reach too far for his ear and wrapping her arm around his shoulders to hold the apple is almost impossible.

“Um…here, put your legs together,” she says, getting to her feet and stepping out of the circle of his body. He mourns the loss of her warmth, but does as she says, laying his legs flat out in front of him and pressing them together.

He’s always been good at taking orders from powerful women, after all.

“All right, then. I’ll just…I mean, if you don’t mind…”

He can tell she’s testing something – herself, him, _fate_ , he doesn’t know, but he lets her. Lets her figure out her boundaries, knowing that he has none. Not where she’s concerned.

It’s difficult, though, once he realizes what she aims to do. Still, he doesn’t move, even as she stands with a foot on either side of his legs and _sits_. Straddling him. She flashes him a half-embarrassed, half-defiant sort of smile that makes him wonder what he ever thought was so beautiful about Maeve.

“All right?” she says softly.

“All right,” he rasps.

Her calves press against the sides of his thighs as she sits up, adjusting her arms around his head.

He tries not to look like he’s breathing in her scent as deeply as he can.

Or that he’s forcing himself not to thread his hands through that mane of hair .

Or that he’s biting his tongue to keep himself from tasting the hollow of her collarbone.

“I’m gonna…I’m gonna…you’re all right with this?” she says, sitting back on her heels. Sitting back on his _thighs_. “What if I mess up?”

“Elide, you could cut my earlobes off with your kitchen knife and I wouldn’t care,” he says. The worst part is, he means it. “Go ahead, girl.”

She sits back up, her resolve properly steeled, and he barely feels the apple brush his neck before the tip of the needle is pressed against his skin – and then _through_ his skin.

“What happened to giving a warning?” he hisses, startled.

“I was making myself nervous,” she says, wobbling a bit on her knees as she reaches for the simple hoop meant for his ear. Instinctively, he grasps her waist to steady her. She looks down at him, and he’s struck by the realization of how _very_ nice she looks on top of him.

He’s about to force himself to let go, but she says, “That – that helps, actually.”

He nods, glad that he doesn’t blush as brightly as she does, as she gets readjusted to pierce the other ear. He notices chills crawl across her neck and wonders for a moment what caused them – before realizing it’s his breath.

“Ready?” she whispers.

When did she begin talking so softly?

“Yes,” Lorcan breathes, trying to resist the urge to slide his hands from her waist down to her hips.

Her sharp exhale is his only warning before the needle pierces his other earlobe. He digs his fingers into her flesh as she wobbles again. She huffs out a laugh, strained and embarrassed, as she looks down at him.

Have they ever been this close? He can feel the heat of her thighs on his legs, the soft flesh of her waist beneath his fingers, can see the delicate tendons of her neck stretch and disappear as she leans back and examines her work. It would be so easy to thread a hand through that beautiful hair, guide her lips to his…

He’s almost sure she would let him. He’s caught her staring at him more than a few times, something distant and unfocused in her eyes, _especially_ when he’s shirtless.

But that means nothing, he scolds himself. She spent all of the years she _should_ have been learning how to handle her desire in a fucking _tower_ , for Hellas’ sake. If she should gawk or ogle every once in a while, it’s more of a testament to her rediscovery of men’s bodies than it is a sign of any sort of… _affection_ for Lorcan. If she needs to use him to learn how to admire men without fear, he’ll gladly let her.

But when she looks at him like that, her eyes wide and mouth slightly agape and distraction written across her face…

Lorcan shifts, hands hovering over her hips as he straightens up, hoping to all the gods Elide doesn’t look down at the growing… _situation_ …between his legs.

“How does it look?” he says, attempting a teasing tone, a wry smirk. Anything to lighten this heady tension between them.

She gazes at him for a moment longer than necessary, her eyes snagging on his lips. “Beautiful,” she says, her voice a rasp.

And Lorcan Salvaterre – five hundred years old, deadly warrior, cruel and unfeeling – _blushes_.

He blushes like some smooth-cheeked boy whose voice has yet to drop. Like some virgin trying too hard to flirt.

Because Elide thinks he’s _beautiful_.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat. “It’s all your handiwork.”

She nods, a flush working up her neck to her cheeks. As if spurred into action by his words, she hurries to stand. When she falters, putting too much weight on her bad foot, Lorcan reaches out to help her but she shakes her head. Her hands smooth out her skirts, though there’s no wrinkles Lorcan can see. A nervous habit of hers, he’s learned.

He gets to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. The weight of the rings in his ears is strange, but not unfamiliar. He’s had earrings before, but Fae heal so quickly it’s difficult to retain any piercings. The moments he takes out any jewelry, the skin knits itself back together as if it had never been there.

He reaches up to feel the cool metal beneath his fingers and resolves to never let these piercings heal themselves, to keep them as proof that Elide was here. That, for a moment or two in his great tragedy of a life, she was his.

“I’m going to…um…” he points to the creek beyond a copse of trees. She nods, busying herself with her knapsack though Lorcan knows she’s already emptied it.

For a moment, he allows himself to imagine that the proximity bothered her just as much as him.

That her mind is full of the same images that haunt him.

That she aches for him to rip off her dress the same way he aches to tear it off, to run his hands over her bare skin, to prove to her just how beautiful she is. To teach her every way to wring pleasure out of her body. To show her just how much she deserves, just how much he wants to give her – everything, everything, _anything_.

He hurries to the creek, practically crashing through the trees, all of his normal caution and grace forgotten as his skin burns to touch hers.

Lorcan doesn’t stop to take off his clothes before diving into the freezing water of the creek, knowing that the last thing he needs right now is to be naked. The impromptu bath certainly does its job; even through his Fae defenses, the piercing pain of the cold distracts his body from its previous… _issue_.

He emerges with a relieved sigh, shaking his hair like a wet dog and hurrying back for shore. He stops dead in his tracks when Elide comes crashing through the thicket after him.

“Lorcan?” she says, bewildered, panicked. “What the hell are you doing? I heard all that noise and thought – thought that something happened, but…are you – are you bathing with your clothes on?”

Floundering for an excuse, Lorcan looks down into the water when he feels something brush against his leg. Calling on his Fae speed, Lorcan bends down and catches the sleek fish in his hand and throws it at the shore. Elide squeals, but hurries to step on the fish before it can flap back into the water.

She looks back at Lorcan, throwing her hands up in exasperated confusion.

“I was catching something fresh for dinner,” he says, hoping his shrug looks casual. 

“Well…that’s great, Lorcan,” she says, with begrudging admiration. “Actually, that’s pretty impressive. I just don’t see why you had to jump _in_ to catch it.”

“It’s a Fae custom,” he says, trudging back to shore. He pointedly ignores the hand Elide extends to him. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“It most certainly isn’t,” she snaps, but there’s something almost like humor in her voice now. “I suppose you know a way to cook this?”

She holds the fish up by its tail, grinning up at him half-disgusted and half-excited.

“I’ll show you,” he says, reaching for it. He curses himself for it, though, when her warm fingers brush his.

“Oh, Lorcan!” she says, wrapping her hand around his wrist. Her fingers can’t even close around it. It makes him think of something _else_ her fingers wouldn’t be able to close around. “You’re freezing!”

“I know,” he says, leading them through the thicket of trees back to their campsite.

He holds back a branch, allowing her to walk under it, but she stops to tug at the drenched sleeve of his shirt. “Why don’t you take all of this off?” she asks. “We can hang it up to dry, and you could wear a cloak or something –”

“ _No!_ ”

She flinches at his tone, raising a brow. “Excuse me?”

“I just – I’m fine,” he says, hurrying back to camp. “I don’t need to – I shouldn't - I mean, you don’t want a naked Fae around your food do you?”

“Hell no,” she says, following after him. “A naked _demi_ -Fae? That, I wouldn’t mind.”

She’s teasing him, trying to lighten the air that has grown so tense between them, but the rasp in her voice, the memory of her skin against his wrist, the way her gown clings to every one of her curves, sets his skin aflame. He glances down at her, already grinning up at him, expecting a retort, but all he can see is the curve of her breasts through her dress.

He groans, thrusting the fish back into her hand. “You know what? I think I’ll catch us another one,” he mutters, before marching back to the stream and throwing himself into the water – determined to stay under until his sinful body starts behaving itself.

Though he knows, deep in his tattered soul, that he’ll drown long before he stops aching for Elide Lochan.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first work in a series I'll be doing about Lorcan and Elide's travels to Eyllwe! It will be mostly one-shots of their bonding (and pining, ofc) in no specific order. I'm really excited to write more EoS stuff!!
> 
> As always, any reviews, criticisms, or suggestions are highly appreciated!!


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